The bottle is definitely raised, but Geralt keeps talking, and it reminds Jaskier that this isn't the one from home, the one that broke his heart into pieces in the first place. And shouldn't that be a lesson not to fall for it again? But oh he's weak and wanting - Jaskier needs people, needs this kindness, needs a fucking hug right now to confort him. How can he blame the guy for something he didn't do when he's hurt over someone doing the same to him?
How can he not give in to this care and worry he so desperately needs when it comes from the voice he's dreamed about since he was 18? It's a very powerful combo.
"Stop it. Stop--" Being so nice, he wants to say, but he can't. He can't even mean it, he wants this tenderness to evolve him. Yet each word is at the same time a needle that reminds him with sharp pain of what he could have if he had been born in the right world. "--stop rubbing it in. Stop making me feel like-- like an imbecile."
Why would he ever believe it? Gosh, such a simple question that feels like a kick to his stomach. He's dealt with similar questions a lot the past two decades - why would he follow a mutant? Why would he accept being treated like that? So many courts wanted him, and Oxenfurt itself too, yet he insisted on following Geralt. Jaskier would start singing the praises of his best friend in the whole world then, explaining actions speak louder than words. Life had been unkind to the witcher, he only needed some kindness to learn to relate to others better. He knew Geralt, he had no reason to believe his insults - or so had he thought.
Why would he ever believe it? What a question. If he believed what Geralt said so easily, then... it's because he had reasons to, right? Easy to defend the witcher against other people's insults, but when it comes to believing it himself...
Bollocks. He's such an idiot.
"I THOUGHT I WAS!" He suddenly cries out, the bottle of vodka being dropped to the floor so he can use his hand to cover his face instead. He promised he wouldn't have a breakdown, that the asshole isn't worthy of one, but alcohol and being hit in the face with the version of their relationship he's always craved for have his emotions off-center, unable to really control them (not that he's even been good at that anyway, wearing his heart in his sleeve as he does). It's overwhelming to say the least, and so some tears appear on those blue eyes. "I shaved him, for fuck's sake! I held a blade to his bloody witcher neck, and I thought that meant--"
Something. Anything. At least some kind of progress. Trust?
Everything that he says seems to push Jaskier closer and closer to an emotional breakdown; he can smell it on him, like an oncoming storm. Geralt is starting to get a clearer picture of the man that he is in Jaskier's world, and he doesn't like it. He doesn't like the idea that he is the kind of cruel man who would toss aside a loyal friend so callously, leaving him wrecked.
I thought I was.
Jaskier drops the bottle, and the glass is thick enough that it withstands the fall. More importantly, though, his hand rises to cover his face, but it can't hide the salt smell of his tears. Bitterness and grief, and Geralt hates it, hates the shake of his shoulders and the quiver in his voice, the pain so obviously etched into him.
He'd shaved him. Held a blade to his throat, ran it over his skin. In more recent years, Geralt had let Dandelion trim his beard for him-- the bard claimed that he did a neater job of it, though Geralt suspects that it's more that he wanted to put his expensive oils in it, soften up the hair so that he didn't get beard burn all over his lips and thighs. But even before that, he had let Dandelion shave him on the occasions that he couldn't do it himself, either due to injury or fatigue. He would never have allowed anyone to put a blade to his neck if he didn't trust them completely.
"I'm sorry," he says, bringing his hands to Jaskier's shoulders, a gentle touch. If he had been more certain that doing so wouldn't break him further, he might have pulled him into an embrace. "You shouldn't have been treated so poorly. I know that I'm not him, and he should be the one saying this to you, but-- I'm sorry, either way."
The touch makes him tense, but it's only for a short moment - the voice is apologizing and the hands aren't pushing him away. It's not real, or well, it's not coming from the one he would want it to come from. But can he be blamed for instantly deflating anyway? Can he be blamed for taking a step forward and resting his forehead on that broad chest? For seeking warmth and comfort?
Hasn't he earned it after two decades? He's just so fucking tired.
"...thanks. And-- I'm sorry too. I made you lose your bard yet you still were nice to me, even when I yelled at you. But you aren't him. You shouldn't be..." Apologizing. Getting Jaskier's crap. He sighs. "It's confusing, looking at you. I should know better and yet... I know those golden eyes. I know that starlight hair, that sharp jaw, that deep voice. I recognize the unique scent of Roach." It could be taken as a jab, but for once, he doesn't mean it that way. "Some details are wrong but the rest... you're just older. More scarred. I look at you and I want to throw something at your stubborn head but then you speak kindly to me, you actually use your words, and I just want to give in again. Like a fool."
Because that's what he is, there's no other explanation. His heart is being torn apart by these conflicting feelings, never has he been so overwhelmed by his own emotions - yet here he is, sadness still coming off him in waves, but also calming down under Geralt's attention. Because no matter what happens he continues to be a sucker for it. A fool indeed.
"I haven't sung about the White Wolf in a month." He finally confesses as a shaking hand reaches up to grab a handful of white shirt (a color that isn't black? so wrong). "But my reputation haunted me. I only wanted to go home, get away from it all. Was that really too much to ask for?"
"Dandelion isn't lost," Geralt says. "He's just... temporarily mislaid. He'll likely get himself into some kind of trouble, but I'll get him back out of it again."
Somewhere, in a different world and on a different Continent, a bard is walking into a tavern and finding a grouchy, white-haired witcher in the corner of the room.
Jaskier steps closer and lets his forehead rest on Geralt's chest, and he slides his arms around the bard in response. Holds him as friends do, as a comfort when one is upset-- as he would with Dandelion or any other friend. Well, perhaps less amorously than he would with Dandelion, but that's neither here nor there.
Starlight hair. Dandelion's used the same line before, but it's a good sign that the bard is starting to spout poetry again. A bard that doesn't make poetry is a sad thing, indeed.
"I wasn't always like this," he says, rubbing a soothing hand over Jaskier's back. "I used to talk in mostly grunts and curses. Drove Dandelion up a wall. It took years of patience to teach me how to use words instead of just saying hm and then brooding for half an hour."
But you can teach an old wolf new tricks, if you're patient enough and have exactly zero fear around witchers. Which, thankfully, Dandelion had in spades-- though he could be a coward in many other circumstances, he was always more loyal than he was cowardly. And a man who was willing to walk into Brokilon Forest after Geralt was certainly confident enough to tell the witcher to quit glaring at the wall like a sodden cat and talk to him.
"You've gotten your wish, I suppose," Geralt muses. "You are about as far away from it all as you can get. And your reputation won't haunt you here. If you don't want to sing a note, you don't have to, White Wolf ballad or otherwise. You can spend your days here drinking wine and losing to me at gwent if it pleases you."
Jaskier's heart picks up, especially when a hand starts rubbing his back as well. It helps him hear what Geralt has to say, because here comes the crashing of feelings again. To know he isn't alone in having dealt with an emotionally constipated Geralt is a bit comforting, but at the same time, it makes him feel like more of an idiot for not having gone past through that stage at home. Wouldn't it have been easier to deal with to meet an easy-going Geralt that had always been like this and blame it on the differences between worlds?
He doesn't know anymore. These are very complicated questions, and he's done over-analyzing them. Emotional exhaustion at its fullest.
You need something else.
Fuck, the witch had known exactly what she was doing, Jaskier hates to admit. This is technically wrong - worlds have been altered, Dandelion is now suffering from a reputation (and maybe a witcher?) he doesn't deserve, Jaskier is enjoying a friendship and a household he didn't earn. Except the witch thought he did, and now Geralt is telling him the same:
After twenty years, he's allowed to have a break. To have his loyalty rewarded.
It's going to bite him on the ass later, he knows. Going home will much more difficult, moving on after having a taste of this will be pure pain. But he's going to suffer anyway, isn't he? He can't take the last twenty years of his life back, then may as well enjoy this while it lasts. Besides, since when has he worried so much about the possible consequences? When have potential cuckold husbands and monster wounds ever stopped him before?
Never. And fucking Geralt of Rivia isn't going to take that away from him. He isn't a young maiden to suffer from heartbreak like this. He's Jaskier of Oxenfurt, and everyone he meets has a piece of his heart. The witcher took the biggest one so far, but he won't allow him to take it all.
"That sounds familiar. Are you sure it was for only half an hour?" He asks as a little smile reaches his lips and he dares to close his arms around Geralt's waist. This witcher is a walking furnace as well, heh. If it pleases him? It does. A lot. "Ah, I should've guessed your crippling addiction to gambling transcended worlds." It feels good, being able to tease. Jaskier gives that (shapely built as ever, damn) waist a squeeze before pulling back, wrinkling his noise at the mention of drinking more. "Thank you. Seriously. I'll take you up for that offer of wine later, right now I can already feel a killer hangover coming. So if you excuse me, I shall find one of those lovely rooms you promised, and take a bloody nap."
Geralt does move aside this time, and Jaskier thanks him with a nod before he makes his way out into the hallway. Finding a guest room is easy, all these estates are similar like that in their structure, and the gods know Jaskier has played in enough of them - never mind the fact he also grew up in one. Having a new room where h's about to stay in for a few days usually comes with a ritual of putting away his stuff that Geralt knows well, but right now Jaskier is fucking exhausted. So he leaves them against the wall for now, and only takes off his doublet and wet pants before climbing under the covers.
Sleep comes easy after a month of hell, and he dreams of a warm hug and a comforting hand rubbing his back.
The sun hasn't quite set yet when he wakes up, but the colors of an afternoon ending are already appearing on the sky. Jaskier stays in bed for a moment, admiring them through the window as his lets his mind wander and come to terms with everything that happened that morning. He's not fully okay, not quite yet, but the conclusion he reached stills hold true in his heart: things are gonna suck anyway, may as well enjoy this as it lasts. That's how he's always moved on from heartbreak anyway, a night of drinking followed by pushing through like always, trying not to let it bother him, because that's how life and the matters of the heart work.
He's been an idiot the past month, suffering over a man that doesn't deserve it. And he's fucking done with that. Feeling revitalized with a new goal and purpose, Jaskier gets out of bed in a better mood, charms ready to find a maid - only someone like Geralt could smell the edge of sadness that hides behind this feeling of a new adventure. Jaskier smiles and winks, which gets him his dirty clothes sent away to be washed and a basin of clean, fresh water to wash himself as well. Dressed in his light blue doublet and with his hair properly brushed now, Jaskier leaves his room to explore.
It's a beautiful estate, that's for sure. Perfect for retirement, if that's what Geralt is doing, judging by the whole wine-and-gwent deal. It's funny, to think of Geralt as head of a household. The witcher had mentioned Jaskier's grandmother though, so he has to assume poor Dandelion suffered though Lettenhove as well - so maybe New Geralt is doing well thanks to extra help. Speaking of help, all the servants seem to be happy and relaxed in their jobs. Which is a great thing, obviously, but Jaskier can't help being surprised by it. It's a shitty thought he knows, but where he's from, people don't want to hang out with witchers. He's happy for Geralt to have found workers that respect him and don't fear him.
All the guest rooms seem to be about the same, so Jaskier isn't disappointed with his choice. He finds the desk Geralt told him about and gods, isn't that a sight, because it surely feels like a workplace he would've set up for himself. Half of him wants to use it, the other finds it too weird of a concept. It seems these contradictory feelings are going to follow him around for a while.
When he makes it to the master bedroom, curiosity gets the better of him pretty quickly. Are the swords the same? The medallion isn't. And this Geralt wears colors, what's up with that? Of course Jaskier needs the details! When he enters the room, however, the first things he notices aren't Geralt's.
That, right there, is Filavandrel's lute.
No. It can't be. Geralt is probably just taking care of it while Dandelion is gone, right? Except a closer look around the room tells him his assumptions may be correct after all. Shaking hands open the wardrobe and...
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.
It's like being punched in his stomach again in Posada.
Heart beating too fast to be possible, Jaskier runs back to his room, where he takes deep breaths and tries to calm down as he paces from wall to wall. He said he wouldn't allow this place to torture him anymore, right? Easier said than done of course, because the unfairness of it all keeps creeping up on him, taking him unaware and unprepared, delivering emotional kicks that keep squeezing his lungs out of air and his heart out of blood.
What he needs is to get all his feelings off his chest, cleanse his soul before going back to exploring, flirting and picking up stories from various new people. His mood isn't right for writing, however...
Jaskier stares at his lute, hesitating. And in the end he decides to hell with it. He grabs his instrument, sits on the windowsill...
And that's how suddenly the house is presented with the notes and lyrics of Her Sweet Kiss.
It's like therapy, okay. (Sorry about any crying maids.)
Geralt let Jaskier off to his own devices for the rest of the morning, which-- judging from the slow, even heartbeat that he could hear in one of the guest rooms-- was sleeping off all of the vodka that he drank and heartache that he spilled. Geralt goes about his business for the day, pleased that Jaskier is safe in bed, and with the discomfort of the fact that Dandelion is not weighing heavily on the back of his mind.
Dandelion can handle himself. He has traveled the roads on his own for years, knows how to use the knives that Geralt gave him to defend himself if he has to. Or, sometimes, if he doesn't-- he's has had to physically pick him up and pull him away from fights that he's started, usually over someone saying something unflattering about witchers. Dandelion takes great offense at that kind of thing on Geralt's behalf.
(In another world, a bard follows after a witcher, ignoring his sullen silence, walking next to a brown mare. He sneaks her sugar cubes when he thinks the witcher isn't watching, but his bribes don't go unnoticed.)
Later, when the afternoon is sinking into evening, Geralt returns to the house after a good, long ride on Roach and takes off her tack, gives her a rub-down for the evening. There's a stable boy who could do that kind of thing, but he knows that Geralt likes to take care of Roach after rides, and that he prefers to get her dinner oats and water himself. He's walking back towards the house when he hears the sound of a lute, and though the melody is unfamiliar, for a moment it feels like everything is how it should be. Dandelion, sitting in the windowsill, trying out a new composition to see if he likes how it sounds. He cuts through the scullery to get back inside, and one of the maids is standing hear the sink, dabbing at her eyes. She startles when he walks in-- it's Lily, one of the newer girls, and she's... the cook's niece, he thinks-- and tries to dry her tears a little faster, pats down her apron like she's embarrassed to be caught in such a state.
"Terribly sorry, Master Geralt," she says, and he's already told her about a dozen times that just Geralt is fine, but she's upset so he lets it go, "It's just, your friend, the bard, he's playing something and it was just so sad. Lovely, but the kind of thing that makes you feel like you want to have a good cry."
Geralt has never felt like he needs to have a good cry in his life, but he just nods along as though he understands. He leaves her to her own devices, stepping into the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting,
He walks down it, towards the open window where Jaskier sits, silhouetted by the red and gold light of the approaching sunset. The light in his hair makes it look like a gold halo around his head, gilds his skin.
If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,
They aren't far from the bedrooms. Geralt catches a brief trail of Jaskier's distinctive scent, and though he doesn't follow it, it heads in the direction of the master, the one that he shares with Dandelion.
Garroter, jury and judge.
He waits until the bard is finished with his song-- it would be rude to interrupt.
Jaskier is, to the surprise of nobody, a very emotional person. He feels a lot and he feels strongly, and that's of course one of the things that make him such a good artist. He keeps his regular notebook to compose, but he also has an extra secret one, one that is almost a diary - as an artist, the best way for him to handle his emotions is through poetry. It helps him greatly to handle so any emotions by putting them into words and onto paper. They aren't the best of his writing, and he doesn't care. He doesn't write those to present to his professors in Oxenfurt or to sing in court - he allows to be silly, less perfect, just a way to take it all off his chest. He always feels more centered when he's done.
Her Sweet Kiss is a 'proper' song, one he could sing for a public if he wants to. But right now, it's working as his silly rhymes would usually do: it helps him calm down, helps him quench the flames that threaten to burn him from the inside. It's cathartic, that's what it is.
But that doesn't mean he isn't startled by New Geralt's sudden appearance. Fuck, did it hear it all?
And why should it matter anyway? Judging from what he saw in the master bedroom, this Geralt wouldn't have a negative reaction to Jaskier's pining. He's allowed to express himself... it's such a weird thought to wrap his mind around.
"I hope you know better than expecting me to apologize." He says with a little smile, watching the witcher closely for any clues about his thoughts on the song. His scent continues to be bittersweet. "My song has reached a gentle heart with its message - such an emotional reaction is a compliment for this bard! The magic of poetry showing its power! The only thing I lament is having missed it."
Not quite all, but enough. Enough that he has an idea of what it's about, and who the players in it are. Jaskier, like Dandelion, wears his heart directly on his sleeve, and Geralt has heard enough about his alternate universe self to have a pretty good idea who the garroter, jury and judge is.
He leans against the wall with his arms loosely crossed, not far from Jaskier's window. Watches him as he rambles a little about gentle hearts and the magic of poetry; it's not the words that Geralt is paying attention to, though. Bards can talk and talk until their throats are hoarse and still say nothing at all. What they can't hide, though, is their scent, and behind all that chatter about compliments to his talents, there's still sadness.
"She probably didn't want to bother you."
Hence the whole fleeing to the scullery thing. Besides, few people like to be seen when they're crying; no one cries prettily, not if they're doing it in earnest.
"Her sweet kiss, huh?"
It's a good song, really. The kind of thing that would get Jaskier a lot of coin if he played it at just the right time, when the audience was in the right kind of mood. With certain crowds, a maudlin ballad about lost love and heartache could open purses just as well as a bawdy song.
"If you want my opinion, the subject of your song's an idiot."
Come on, Geralt, at least the bard is speaking with long, poetic sentences again. Isn't that a good sign?
"Ah, but she wouldn't have!" A hand goes to his chest, the maid's gesture considered touching. "What a sweetheart she is, I'll have a word with her later. Dedicate her a happier song."
Maybe make out with her if the opportunity makes itself known, why not.
Ah, but never mind the maid, New Geralt confirms he's heard the song. Which shouldn't be surprising because witcher ears, but still. He doesn't comment on Jaskier's feelings, at least - no teasing, no disgust, nothing but sympathy. Jaskier appreciates it more than he can describe.
"If by 'idiot' you mean 'a big dimwitted, cretinous, emotional constipated, blithering oaf', then agreed."
A shrug, as if it wasn't a big deal. Except it totally is, but he's supposed to be doing soul cleansing right now, let the memory of the asshole go. Impossible to do with another Geralt next to him, talking with the same voice, but he's gotta try. That's the plan anyway.
It fails quite badly.
"You and Dandelion..." He says as he looks at the sunset, fingers playing random notes, stomach turning once again. "...you're together."
Jaskier is Jaskier, and at the end of the day, his curiosity will always get the best out of him.
Geralt hums in response to the bard’s many and varied insults for his alternate universe counterpart. It’s justified, anyway, considering how poorly the other witcher had treated him. Who could blame him for his ire after the things that were said at their parting?
Jaskier doesn’t look at him, instead turning his gaze to the lovely sunset that colors the whole vineyard in shades of red and gold. It’s the kind of sight that men paid thousands for. The fact that it’s now Geralt’s is... something that he’s still getting used to, even after a full year. The idea that maybe he’ll be a witcher who retires.
You and Dandelion... you’re together.
Geralt had wondered when Jaskier would ask that question. When he would notice that the witcher and his bard are a little closer than just best friends in the whole wide world. Not that Dandelion isn’t— he’s just also his lover, too.
“We are,” he says. “Dandelion is the heart of me, and he has been for probably longer than I realized. Though living with me has been a recent development for the both of us.”
Both because neither have been the settling down types, and because having the estate has been quite the new thing. And Geralt knows that Dandelion won’t stay for good— he has to go back to Novigrad, to the Chameleon, eventually. It’s what he wanted for so long and Geralt won’t demand that he stay.
“I won’t apologize for it. If I’ve learned anything from him, it’s that I spent too long denying the things I felt. But I hope this won’t make you uncomfortable.”
Ah. The bittersweet scent gets stronger. Dandelion is the heart of me. Part of Jaskier wonders if he should be happy this other bard has chosen a different flower for his name, because he isn't sure he could've listened to that very sentence said with his own name and survive.
His heart beats a little faster, the smile on his face is small and kinda sad, but honest. At least one of them got what they wanted - he's a bit jealous (scratch that, very jealous) but also genuinely happy for him. At least one bard should be rewarded for dealing with this oaf of a witcher. He has been for probably longer than I realized. Fuck, a year ago- hell, a month ago that would've given him hope. Not realizing how he feels is that kind of thing Geralt would do.
The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it's something out of a story. Companion souls that meet again in another world... he can feel the words coming. In another life, in another place, I'd have held you close, I'd have known your grace.
It's Geralt's next statement that snaps him out of his composing mode. He turns to look at the witcher again, confusion and bafflement obvious in his face.
"Apologize?!" Oh look, it's the High Pitched Indignant Voice (TM). "Nobody should ever apologize for love, Geralt." A pause before he mumbles. "...even if there's something to be said about your taste in women."
Okay, look, not even when he's happy for them he can leave the pettiness behind, okay. Not ever, and especially not now that he's feeling all kinds of weird things about this deal. Any moment is a good moment to throw a jab at Yennefer.
"But I'm glad to hear you're finally expressing wants." He says as he looks through the window again, voice softening and fingers playing random chords. "I don't know how you think this may make me uncomfortable. You heard the song."
Geralt isn't surprised by the shift in Jaskier's scent-- not after hearing this ballad, knowing the kind of heartache that he's carrying. He and Dandelion are what Jaskier wants and cannot have, the love of the witcher that he'd given the best years of his life to. Where Dandelion had been rewarded for his loyalty and companionship with affection, gentleness, and intimacy, Jaskier had been given harsh words and an undignified send-off. Tossed aside like an old dog. Who wouldn't be a little bitter, a little jealous?
Jaskier launches into a little rant about love, which seems like it may be one of his favorite topics to rant about. Geralt indulges him through it, until he trails off with something about his taste in women.
"I'm not apologizing," he says, "and I think there's nothing wrong with my taste in women. They were all amazing people, even if they weren't the ones for me. Still friends with many of them."
Even Yennefer. Just because breaking the djinn wish had revealed that the intense, all-consuming attraction had been nothing more than magic, that didn't negate decades of knowing her. She is still important to him, though not in the same way.
"I thought this might make you uncomfortable because of what I heard in the song."
Geralt pushes off of the wall with his shoulder and instead sits below the windowsill, makes himself comfortable near Jaskier's feet.
"I've been told that I've gotten a lot better at talking and listening, in the past few years," he offers, tilting his head back to look up at the bard. "Can string a few words together, learned to pay attention when people talk about things that aren't about a contract or horses. You could talk about it, if you want. Maybe I'll have some insight."
Who else would know the inner workings of Geralt's mind better than Geralt himself? And if it would help ease him, either by confirming his suspicions or rejecting them, Geralt would listen. Gods know he's sat next to Dandelion to help sort out far more foolish problems than this.
"And if not, dinner will be ready in about an hour. I can make sure there's plenty of wine."
It takes Jaskier a moment to wrap his mind around that, brow frowning in confusion - not as big as he and Dandelion, obviously, still processing that one thank you very much, but still. New Geralt had said he used to speak in grunts, as well, to be more like Old Geralt. He's older and nicer now, and that's good and all, but it's still weird to think of him as going out there and getting a bunch of not-paid lovers...
Like, let's say, a bard would do.
It's a good thing, really, that Geralt has achieved another step into normality, so to speak. Fewer people afraid of him, the kindness and affection he deserves. But Jaskier is Jaskier, and jealousy remains, especially when he thinks about poor Dandelion. Their relationship is recent, New Geralt said, which means Dandelion had to live through all those lovers. Jaskier never thought he'd see the day he would be thankful for just having to deal with Yennefer. Which is an incredibly selfish thought, because again, Geralt deserves this little piece of normality.
His heart just happens to be a mess right now. So much for having to reach that conclusion when he woke up, huh?
He supposes it had been silly of him to think he could just let go and enjoy this vacation so easily. New Geralt may be new, but he's still Geralt. Any conversation they have from now on will always end up back on these topics, on the differences, on making Jaskier's heart ache. Like now, with the witcher sitting under his feet, just hanging out like friends would do. Offering an ear for the bard's wordy rants, not something he's ever thought he could have.
It only takes him a second to jump off the windowsill and sit next to New Geralt on the floor, shoulders touching. If they had a fire in front of them, it could almost be like the old times - well, except it was never like this with Old Geralt, was it? So... comfortable. So open.
Jaskier loves talking about himself. But he's never talked about Geralt himself, not this level of honesty, he's realizing now. He's sung his praises and defended their friendship, but he's never truly shared the details of what they had with anyone, except maybe the Countess de Stael. And even her only got like one tenth of it.
If I talk about it, I'll cry again.
Putting it into words makes him feel so stupid. Jaskier has dealt with heartbreak many a time, but right now he just wants to scream. It's not just a lost love - he never even expected that from Geralt anyway. It's the loss of his best friend, his youth, his identity. So proud he's been of what he's done with his life, and who is he now? What kind of idiot is he for having built a reputation so entangled with the White Wolf's? He ran away from his family to, among other things, leave Julian behind and be the true Jaskier in him. What have the last twenty years become?
A lie.
He should say that. Instead he says-
"So you want to hear in detail what a fool I am? Why, Geralt, I thought you were the nice one." He jokes, his hands betraying him as they play some of the chords for Her Sweet Kiss. "I had only been trying to insult Yennefer, you know. All I know about his taste in women besides her is... whores."
Because not even twenty years of loyalty have earned him the true story of what happened in Blaviken.
Many of them, certainly, but over the span of years, decades. Not anywhere near the kind of count that Jaskier or Dandelion got up to, but perhaps also not the complete dearth of the Geralt that Jaskier is familiar with. Somewhere in between.
But that's neither here nor there.
The bard sits next to him, their shoulders bumping like old friends. But Jaskier still smells like sadness and loss, a scent that he hasn't quite been able to shake since he got to this estate. But would it have been any better in his own world? In Oxenfurt? Or would he just be covering up the smell of heartbreak with ale and the perfume of one-night lovers?
Jaskier's hands strum a few chords, as though he can't stand to have them still. Nervous habit. Dandelion is much the same, getting fidgety in the fingers when he's upset or anxious. A helpful indicator of his mood, though, so Geralt really can't complain.
"Insulting a sorceress? A bold move," he says, and he's teasing him back. "But considering that your song is about how she's so devastatingly beautiful that she ruins men's lives, I don't know if she'll be insulted. Might even like it."
Probably not what he's going for, but better than having an angry sorceress on his ass. Not that Geralt thought that Yen would actually hurt Jaskier-- or Dandelion, as the case may be. If his version of her is anything like the one in this world, she doesn't bicker with him to waste her time, she does it for the entertainment, for the fun of it. The odd camaraderie she has with Dandelion would undoubtedly surprise this bard greatly. But maybe there's hope in that. If Dandelion and Yennefer can get past their squabbles, perhaps anyone can. There may be a day when even Jaskier doesn't loathe the sight of her.
But he doesn't want to talk about what's gone on with his Geralt, apparently. That's fine-- heartbreak, and whatnot. Requires time and space. There's plenty of space, at least, on the estate, so he could escape whenever he wishes to someplace witcher-less. As for time-- well, Geralt hopes that they have it. It's a bit on Yen's nebulous schedule.
"I could tell you about a hunt instead," he says, switching tactics. What do bards like better than talking about themselves? Hearing stories about something they could write a song on. And even if it's not song material, it's still a story. "Something that you haven't heard before."
"I meant my comment about your taste in women, but thanks for ruining my song."
Is he pouting? Oh yes, he's pouting. And his fingers drop the chords of Her sweet kiss to idly strum a comic jig instead.
New Geralt isn't incorrect about the ale and one night stands idea, it's how Jaskier usually deals with heartbreak. That, and whining to Old Geralt about it too. But it never lasted this long before - he's always loved freely and quickly, and it hurt but it hurt so good. It was never a regret. Right now, however, he just feels stupid.
That's new. He doesn't like it. And as much as he dying to talk about it as he'd usually do, he's not ready to confront the reality of the last twenty years of his life being a fucking mistake.
Jaskier has to wonder how much New Geralt understands of all that - probably not much. But at least he's being understanding, offering company and a chat, not pushing, and Jaskier appreciates that. His fingers pause when he hears the offer, the tip of his tongue peeking out as his heart beats a little faster. Before he can stop himself from doing anything stupid (when does that ever work anyway?), his hand reaches out to gently trace the scar on Geralt's eye.
"This one is new."
He's touching Geralt once more. It shouldn't mean anything, yet it means the world.
"The mere fact you still have your eye makes it ballad worth it, you lucky bastard." Except it's all skill, Jaskier knows. Meh, he's fine he's said in the past. But he has to tease anyway. "It's not the worst one - nothing can beat holding your guts--" Your. He's slipping again, fuck. "--but it's without a doubt at least top five."
Jaskier wants the story behind the eye scar, needs it like burning, but as calloused skin feels scarred skin, something comes back to his mind. After a short pause and a deep breath, his hand falls, this time to push up Geralt's white sleeve, trace the scars on the witcher's arm. His eyes and scent are a turmoil of emotions - the bittersweetness continues, but there's also some nostalgia there, some fondness. Because he's an utter fool that still cares.
"I recognize most of these. I can tell you every story behind them, I was there myself when at least half of them happened. And yet they look... different." He forces himself to look up then, wanting to see those golden eyes when they answer what he's already picturing in his head. "Has nobody ever tended your wounds?"
And by nobody he means Dandelion, but a word spinner he is, and he's trying not to throw accusations out there that can turn Geralt off this conversation.
Jaskier's fingers carefully trace over the scar that bisects Geralt's eye, a wound that has long-since healed over. He allows it, lets Jaskier touch to his heart's content-- Dandelion had done the same before, though usually accompanied by some flowery prose about his bravery and noble features. The tip of Jaskier's tongue is just poking past his bottom lip, and it is almost unbearably endearing.
"It's quite old, and probably not as interesting as you'd like it to be. A parting gift from the cockatrice of Spalla," he replies. But then Jaskier mentions holding in his guts, and Geralt cocks his head to one side, a curious, almost canine gesture. "You held my guts in, too? The bruxa, up near Kerack?"
He still has the scar, a horizontal slash that runs just above his navel. It had been deep and terrible and he remembers Dandelion's pale, horrified face, holding his intestines in with one hand and feeding him potions with the other. It had all turned out fine, of course, though he remembers how, in the hours of agony while he healed afterward, how he had found comfort in Dandelion's presence. How, when in terrible pain, he had found solace in the touch of his hand on his feverish brow.
Maybe that was when he had first started to realize how much Dandelion meant to him.
Jaskier reaches down and pushes up the sleeve on Geralt's arm, revealing a tapestry of criss-crossing scars. He recognizes the map of tough tissue that twists across his skin-- seems intimately acquainted with it, in fact. But their appearance is different, which seems strange if Jaskier otherwise knows how they were made.
"I tended to them," he says. "The ones that I could, at least. Usually with salve, stitched if I could manage it."
So the ones on his right arm were worse than his left, simply because he's worse at stitching left-handed and bad stitches could be more detrimental than just letting a wound heal on its own.
"Why? I assume that your Geralt knows how to take care of his wounds."
Reciting poetry about Geralt's scars and heroics are a standard of Jaskier's as well, but at the moment he's a little distracted by the current... well, everything. It says quite a lot about how overwhelming and confusing it is to be touching and speaking to New Geralt like this, his mind trying to keep worlds apart from each other yet finding coincidences in every corner.
"Ugh, yes. Exactly that hunt, location included." Scent souring a bit at the memory, Jaskier closes his eyes and bumps the back of his head against the wall, swallowing the smell of Geralt's blood still engraved in his mind. "Most terrifying day of my life, and that's saying something considering the life I've lead next to a witcher."
The hand on Geralt's arm closes tightly, as if confirming he's there and alive. Jaskier has seen a lot of shit while traveling with Geralt, been threatened by monsters and humans alike, but nothing compares to having the witcher almost dying in his hands. Not even that day in Rinde when he actually thought he was dead - that had been a fast punch and the sadness hadn't lasted long. The bruxa wound had been continuous worry, hours of not knowing what would happen to Geralt, of seeing his best friend in pain and holding his very insides on his hands, hours of not-stopping torture.
Thankfully, New Geralt keeps talking, providing a good distraction and keeping him anchored to reality - even if this reality is quite messy in its own way, at least it's not the bloody kind of messy.
"Sure, as much care as the rules of 'witcher enduring' allowed him to." He says after snorting, irritation showing up in his voice. Dumb witchers. "Just like you, if your arm is anything to go by. I'm fine, Jaskier, witchers heal faster." The last part is said with his imitation of Geralt's deep voice as he shakes his head in disapproval. "The first time I stitched him, I puked right after. I thought he would tease me for it, he hadn't been very happy about all the camping stuff he had to teach me. But he didn't - he just passed me the water skin. Pointed at some puke on my doublet."
Jaskier is so much like Dandelion that Geralt can't help looking at him fondly, reaching over to pat his hand where it rests on his scarred forearm. There's that touch of worry and discomfort in his scent, recognizable because it's so similar between the two bards. Dandelion hated to think about that wound, too, though he never shied away from kissing it whenever it was revealed to him.
"Witchers do heal faster than humans," he says, and he knows that those words are exactly the kind of thing that riles up bards. But that's a pretty damn good impression of his deep, rough growl, he has to admit. "Though I certainly heal better with a little salve and some bandaging."
And that was what his bard was good for-- getting him the potions that he needed or putting salve on wounds that he couldn't reach and bandaging them up. Helped keep him alive, even if it didn't make his wounds any prettier.
"Dandelion's a shit seamstress," he says after a moment or two of mulling over Jaskier's anecdote, "and he isn't any better on skin. He puked the first time he saw me with worse than some bruises and scrapes, too. Spared his doublet, didn't spare his shoes."
Then complained about how he'd just thrown up a belly full of piss ale all over his pretty embroidered leather. Geralt had been less than sympathetic at the time, but that was in large part due to the fact that he had a rather troublesome wound that he was bleeding profusely from. Puts him in a sour mood, a gaping hole in the side.
"I told him that vomit doesn't stain as badly as a few pints of witcher blood, and that's why I wore so much black." Geralt sighs. "Would've thought I punched him, by the look on his face. Fussed over me for the rest of the night."
And that had been an experience that was, somehow, simultaneously both uncomfortable and... kind of nice. Geralt wasn't used to being fussed over-- hell, he wouldn't take to it well even now. But the fact that Dandelion cared so much about whether he lived or died was a novelty that was hard to pass up even if, at the time, Geralt assumed that it was solely entrenched in self-preservation. If Geralt died, after all, Dandelion lost his protection against monsters, bandits, and angry fathers.
"It was... strange. Most humans wouldn't go out of their way to help a witcher, even if one fell over at their feet. You and Dandelion did more than just that."
They stayed, too. Even after the work had been done, they stayed and were there the next time it happened, and the next, despite how terrifying it was for them. It took Geralt far longer than it should've to realize why.
The patting of his hand is appreciated, bringing a tiny smile to his lips. Just as Geralt predicts, though, he huffs at the mention of witcher healing - but at least he doesn't comment on it. This Geralt has the decency of not denying how important it is when someone helps, and by the gods, Jaskier's always wanted to hear that. It helps making his scent a little sweeter, even if not completely so.
Hearing Dandelion's a shit seamstress takes him by surprise. Of all the differences between their worlds, this one he doesn't see coming, simply because from what he's heard about Dandelion so far (and noticed in the wardrobe) says the bard takes care of his looks as much as Jaskier does. Doesn't he have the basic sewing skills to allow his doublets to survive the road?
"Your punches are nowhere as bad as your bleeding." He offers with a wrinkled nose, obviously speaking from experience. "But I'm glad to hear he knew what to do after."
It's been nice, having a Geralt that's appreciative in general. You and Dandelion did more than just that is much more direct, though, just like the apology he received earlier - directed at him. New Geralt barely knows him yet doesn't shy away from telling Jaskier he matters, from expressing how important it is what he's done for his witcher.
Jaskier can swear his heart is about to explode.
He hugs his lute close, overwhelmed by all these contradictory feelings inside of him, and before he notices what he's doing, he lets his head fall on New Geralt's shoulder. There's a pause before he speaks again, voice a mere murmur.
"Do you think Yennefer needs me to bring Dandelion back to you? I can continue to do more than that here." This isn't moving on or just enjoying the moment before going home, this is him being a fool again. But he can't help it, he's hurting and desperate to find his place in life again, to find a meaning behind the last twenty years that isn't just heartbreak. "I promise I won't sing about any scars Dandelion has already covered."
Dandelion has some basic skills-- he can bandage wounds and build a fire and knows how to recognize the herbs that Geralt needs for his potions. Can even collect them properly, and he's good at keeping track of how low the witcher's supplies get. But stitching? Well, luckily for him, he either had the coin for seamstresses in town to patch up his doublets, or he could cajole a witcher into doing it for him. And now, he rarely tears his clothes at all.
Punches? An interesting thing to compare-- it's not as though he ever raised a hand to Dandelion, at least not more than an admonishing smack. (Once he'd given a good swat to the bard's ass when he'd thrown him over his shoulder and carried him away from a bar brawl, and, gods, Geralt was an idiot for not recognizing why his scent spiked sweet and lusty. He'd blamed it on the pretty barmaids and Dandelion's unrelenting libido.)
"Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist," he says, his tone as light as that rumbling baritone can ever get. A joke, because the idea of hurting Dandelion intentionally like that? Ridiculous.
The bard's head rests on his shoulder, a warm and familiar weight. If Geralt closes his eyes and ignores the difference between their scents, he could almost believe that everything is normal, that Dandelion is next to him as he always has been.
There is a terrible fragility to Jaskier's voice when he speaks, asks him a little desperate question that makes Geralt's heart ache for him. The Geralt from his world really did a number on him, didn't he?
"I don't know," he answers, because it's the truth. "I don't know enough about any of this to say for sure. But if she doesn't, and it won't hurt anything, I don't think that Dandelion would mind if you stayed. And maybe you don't have to be swapped at the same time. Maybe she could send you back another day, when you feel ready."
When, or if. Readiness can be a difficult thing to determine. Sometimes, people are never ready, even with all the time in the world.
"I would never force Dandelion to go back to a place that makes him miserable. How could I demand the same of you?"
Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist.
"...bollocks."
The curse is mumbled before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For fuck's sake, of all the things to be different... It's kind ironic, though, because of all the mistreatment he's received from Geralt through the years, the punch is the one thing he never resented him for, not truly. Geralt expressing an emotion for a change? Never a bad thing, and Jaskier did insult him. It is frustrating that he's been the only one to be punched for it -Geralt should be defending himself like that from everyone that insults him, really, there's a reason why Jaskier's had so many arguments at inns and taverns, getting them both in trouble- but it never truly bothered him.
He's looking at it differently now, after the mountain.
New Geralt isn't going to like this, he can tell. But the witcher is probably already smelling his hesitation, knowing something is going on.
"If I must be glad then it's over the receiving end having been my guts and not my face." He replies with the lightest tone he can muster. "These lovely lips must stay unbruised to keep singing to the innkeepers and kissing their maids."
Will he ever feel ready? Melitele's tits, he wants to believe so. He hates that he's letting this affect him so much, usually he loves and moves on much faster. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, a relationship of twenty years that built his reputation and career isn't the same as a fling, or even what he had with the Countess. Clinging to a new Geralt isn't the healthiest alternative either but...
He's so, so done with everything. Jaskier wants to be wanted, need, and New Geralt is, well. Offering him exactly that. He's weak and wanting, can anyone truly blame him for giving in?
"Thank you." His tone is softer now, his scent showing he's calming down, settling in. Not completely happy yet but at least allowing himself to rely on this distraction. "And sorry you've lost your bard because of this. I never thought the witch would take my need to get away from it all so extremely." A thought suddenly comes to his mind, and he can't help snorting. "...or maybe she was trying to grant him his wish as well."
Geralt's expression darkens at Jaskier's confession, an angry thundercloud despite the lightness of the bard's tone. His guts and not his face. It had been a pulled punch, probably, because it didn't seem like it harmed him very much, but that's not the point. The point is that there should be no circumstance in which Geralt raises a hand to Jaskier in earnest. A cuff upside the head when he was being particularly stupid or troublesome, sure, or a little slap to the arm, but never a closed fist.
He's a witcher, after all. He's strong, and a misjudgment of his strength could easily hurt the bard severely. And for what? To punish him for an off-color comment or for chasing after the wrong skirt? Trifles compared to what could be lost.
"Hm."
Classic Geralt-brand brooding. A more emotionally competent witcher he may be, but there are some habits that never quite leave.
But Jaskier's tone and his scent soften, and that in turn helps to blunt the edge of Geralt's bad mood. Even if Jaskier's been poorly treated before, he's here, and he's safe, and there are no ungrateful witchers around to break his heart.
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he says with a shake of his grey head. "You didn't ask the sorceress to do any of this."
That last comment, though, Jaskier's sudden thought, makes Geralt frown. Could that be true? Would Dandelion have wished to get away from him, to go somewhere that Geralt couldn't follow? He'd never tried to restrict Dandelion's wanderlust or demanded that he stay, but perhaps he had felt trapped anyway. Geralt had been so sure that he was happy, but he'd also once thought that he was in love with Yennefer, so he isn't exactly the most reliable judge of such things.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says, because food is a safe topic. "Will you come?"
Jaskier's head is up and frowning at Geralt as soon as he hears that grunt. Hell no!
"Ooooh nononono, don't you dear start brooding on me, you obstinate wolf!" And that's one finger poking at Geralt's chest. "I thought you were supposed to be the less emotionally constipated one! Use. Your. Words." Each word is punctuated by a poke before the hand is taken back. Huff! Silly witchers.
It's true, though, he didn't ask the sorceress to do this. But he wants to show some sympathy, especially since they were screwed over like a third party. Nothing like at all like Old Geralt's accusations, where his misery came from his own stupid choices. So Jaskier mumbles another thanks before smiling at the invitation. It's such a little thing but it makes a big difference.
"Of course! Dinner sounds lovely, and you can tell me your stories while we share some wine."
And maybe this time he gets to flirt a little more with the maids. Would it be weird, though, now they both know how the other feels? Speaking of...
Jaskier is already standing up to leave, but only take two steps before he stops. A new thought has come to his mind, one that squeezes his heart and makes him smell nervous as hell. It's a crazy thought, one that could hurt him anymore, but now that it's in his brain it won't go away and he knows he better deals with it sooner than later. At least they're having a moment here, better make use of the occasion instead of letting his mouth say too much by accident later.
"May I ask you a question?" He doesn't turn around, for the first time ever not daring to look at golden eyes when he speaks. "It's-- I promise I don't mean anything deeper at all with it, you have my word as a bard... which you probably think it's not worth much, do you not, the word of a storyteller. Right then, I swear on my bloody lute, it's not a proposition and I have no expectations, I'm not asking anything of you, a simply yes or not will do. I just have this need to know..."
Jaskier's finger pokes him in the chest, though it's about as effective as poking at a rock. The huffy, offended expression that he levels at the witcher is still kind of endearing, like an angry puppy nipping at his heels.
"It's nothing important," he says, and that's probably an answer that he'd heard before from the emotionally incompetent Geralt, too. "And it isn't anything that you could answer, anyway."
He wouldn't know what's in Dandelion's mind, after all. They're similar, not literally the same person.
The bard is only a few steps away when he stops, something apparently on his mind. Something important, since it makes his scent go strangely anxious and insecure. All of the qualifiers before he gets to the actual question are also concerning, though they do make him terribly curious as to what he's so worried about. Something that could sound like a proposition? What, is he going to ask what Dandelion's like in bed, or, even worse, what Geralt is like in bed?
The answer, of course, is good, though for one awkward moment, Geralt wonders if some aspects of his sex life with the bard would be... surprising, or if he'd pegged Geralt as quickly as Dandelion had.
Do you think I'm attractive?
Well. That's certainly a tamer question than Geralt was expecting.
He takes a moment and lets his eyes wander over the bard's figure, going from the bottom up. He's tall, though not as tall as Dandelion, broad shouldered and sturdy. His clever tailoring hides some of it, making him look more delicate than he is. There's a boyish charm to his features, and his eyes are so very blue, like cornflowers.
"Yes," he replies, standing up from his spot under the window. "You are an attractive man."
He gives the bard a wry smile. "Fishing for compliments?"
Indeed, that's an answer he's heard before, so of course he has to huff again. Not only the answer is the same he'd get at home, the way Geralt decides to act on it also matches. So much for an emotionally superior witcher...
"Just because I can't provide an answer, it doesn't mean I can't offer a friendly ear to help you sort your troubles. It can't possibly be worse than fishing for a djinn to solve them."
Talking to his best friend in the world? Bad. Asking a djinn to put him to sleep and possibly getting wish side-effects? Good. Classic Geralt logic.
Those golden eyes have always carried so much weight in them, so intense they are with decades of watching humanity and monsters (sometimes being one and the same). It isn't often that Jaskier has trouble meeting them, but now? Feeling them on his very human body, checking him out? Well, it's something else for sure. It makes him feel almost naked - exposed.
Then the answer comes and, well. Jaskier smiles, his hear beating a little faster. Dandelion is one lucky son of a bitch, isn't he?
"Thank you." He says with the deepest sincerity, almost feeling like he's a teenager again, getting giddy over the simplest of compliments. But then New Geralt makes that question and he laughs, providing the distraction he needs. He has the answer he needed and his soul feels a little cozier for it, now he can go back to his usual histrionics. "Geralt, you wound me!" After hanging his lute on his back, he opens his arms as he follows the witcher back to the dining room. "Surely you must know any bard worth his money has many a way in his sleeves to fish for compliments, more subtle and effective that such a direct question!" Subtle, Jaskier? Really? "Not even Queen Calanthe herself was inmune to my hunt for flattery, and thank the gods for that, considering the pickle you put us in."
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How can he not give in to this care and worry he so desperately needs when it comes from the voice he's dreamed about since he was 18? It's a very powerful combo.
"Stop it. Stop--" Being so nice, he wants to say, but he can't. He can't even mean it, he wants this tenderness to evolve him. Yet each word is at the same time a needle that reminds him with sharp pain of what he could have if he had been born in the right world. "--stop rubbing it in. Stop making me feel like-- like an imbecile."
Why would he ever believe it? Gosh, such a simple question that feels like a kick to his stomach. He's dealt with similar questions a lot the past two decades - why would he follow a mutant? Why would he accept being treated like that? So many courts wanted him, and Oxenfurt itself too, yet he insisted on following Geralt. Jaskier would start singing the praises of his best friend in the whole world then, explaining actions speak louder than words. Life had been unkind to the witcher, he only needed some kindness to learn to relate to others better. He knew Geralt, he had no reason to believe his insults - or so had he thought.
Why would he ever believe it? What a question. If he believed what Geralt said so easily, then... it's because he had reasons to, right? Easy to defend the witcher against other people's insults, but when it comes to believing it himself...
Bollocks. He's such an idiot.
"I THOUGHT I WAS!" He suddenly cries out, the bottle of vodka being dropped to the floor so he can use his hand to cover his face instead. He promised he wouldn't have a breakdown, that the asshole isn't worthy of one, but alcohol and being hit in the face with the version of their relationship he's always craved for have his emotions off-center, unable to really control them (not that he's even been good at that anyway, wearing his heart in his sleeve as he does). It's overwhelming to say the least, and so some tears appear on those blue eyes. "I shaved him, for fuck's sake! I held a blade to his bloody witcher neck, and I thought that meant--"
Something. Anything. At least some kind of progress. Trust?
A sob. "Turns out I've been nothing but a maid."
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I thought I was.
Jaskier drops the bottle, and the glass is thick enough that it withstands the fall. More importantly, though, his hand rises to cover his face, but it can't hide the salt smell of his tears. Bitterness and grief, and Geralt hates it, hates the shake of his shoulders and the quiver in his voice, the pain so obviously etched into him.
He'd shaved him. Held a blade to his throat, ran it over his skin. In more recent years, Geralt had let Dandelion trim his beard for him-- the bard claimed that he did a neater job of it, though Geralt suspects that it's more that he wanted to put his expensive oils in it, soften up the hair so that he didn't get beard burn all over his lips and thighs. But even before that, he had let Dandelion shave him on the occasions that he couldn't do it himself, either due to injury or fatigue. He would never have allowed anyone to put a blade to his neck if he didn't trust them completely.
"I'm sorry," he says, bringing his hands to Jaskier's shoulders, a gentle touch. If he had been more certain that doing so wouldn't break him further, he might have pulled him into an embrace. "You shouldn't have been treated so poorly. I know that I'm not him, and he should be the one saying this to you, but-- I'm sorry, either way."
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Hasn't he earned it after two decades? He's just so fucking tired.
"...thanks. And-- I'm sorry too. I made you lose your bard yet you still were nice to me, even when I yelled at you. But you aren't him. You shouldn't be..." Apologizing. Getting Jaskier's crap. He sighs. "It's confusing, looking at you. I should know better and yet... I know those golden eyes. I know that starlight hair, that sharp jaw, that deep voice. I recognize the unique scent of Roach." It could be taken as a jab, but for once, he doesn't mean it that way. "Some details are wrong but the rest... you're just older. More scarred. I look at you and I want to throw something at your stubborn head but then you speak kindly to me, you actually use your words, and I just want to give in again. Like a fool."
Because that's what he is, there's no other explanation. His heart is being torn apart by these conflicting feelings, never has he been so overwhelmed by his own emotions - yet here he is, sadness still coming off him in waves, but also calming down under Geralt's attention. Because no matter what happens he continues to be a sucker for it. A fool indeed.
"I haven't sung about the White Wolf in a month." He finally confesses as a shaking hand reaches up to grab a handful of white shirt (a color that isn't black? so wrong). "But my reputation haunted me. I only wanted to go home, get away from it all. Was that really too much to ask for?"
It seems it was in the eyes of that bloody witch.
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Somewhere, in a different world and on a different Continent, a bard is walking into a tavern and finding a grouchy, white-haired witcher in the corner of the room.
Jaskier steps closer and lets his forehead rest on Geralt's chest, and he slides his arms around the bard in response. Holds him as friends do, as a comfort when one is upset-- as he would with Dandelion or any other friend. Well, perhaps less amorously than he would with Dandelion, but that's neither here nor there.
Starlight hair. Dandelion's used the same line before, but it's a good sign that the bard is starting to spout poetry again. A bard that doesn't make poetry is a sad thing, indeed.
"I wasn't always like this," he says, rubbing a soothing hand over Jaskier's back. "I used to talk in mostly grunts and curses. Drove Dandelion up a wall. It took years of patience to teach me how to use words instead of just saying hm and then brooding for half an hour."
But you can teach an old wolf new tricks, if you're patient enough and have exactly zero fear around witchers. Which, thankfully, Dandelion had in spades-- though he could be a coward in many other circumstances, he was always more loyal than he was cowardly. And a man who was willing to walk into Brokilon Forest after Geralt was certainly confident enough to tell the witcher to quit glaring at the wall like a sodden cat and talk to him.
"You've gotten your wish, I suppose," Geralt muses. "You are about as far away from it all as you can get. And your reputation won't haunt you here. If you don't want to sing a note, you don't have to, White Wolf ballad or otherwise. You can spend your days here drinking wine and losing to me at gwent if it pleases you."
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Is a motherfucking hug.
Jaskier's heart picks up, especially when a hand starts rubbing his back as well. It helps him hear what Geralt has to say, because here comes the crashing of feelings again. To know he isn't alone in having dealt with an emotionally constipated Geralt is a bit comforting, but at the same time, it makes him feel like more of an idiot for not having gone past through that stage at home. Wouldn't it have been easier to deal with to meet an easy-going Geralt that had always been like this and blame it on the differences between worlds?
He doesn't know anymore. These are very complicated questions, and he's done over-analyzing them. Emotional exhaustion at its fullest.
You need something else.
Fuck, the witch had known exactly what she was doing, Jaskier hates to admit. This is technically wrong - worlds have been altered, Dandelion is now suffering from a reputation (and maybe a witcher?) he doesn't deserve, Jaskier is enjoying a friendship and a household he didn't earn. Except the witch thought he did, and now Geralt is telling him the same:
After twenty years, he's allowed to have a break. To have his loyalty rewarded.
It's going to bite him on the ass later, he knows. Going home will much more difficult, moving on after having a taste of this will be pure pain. But he's going to suffer anyway, isn't he? He can't take the last twenty years of his life back, then may as well enjoy this while it lasts. Besides, since when has he worried so much about the possible consequences? When have potential cuckold husbands and monster wounds ever stopped him before?
Never. And fucking Geralt of Rivia isn't going to take that away from him. He isn't a young maiden to suffer from heartbreak like this. He's Jaskier of Oxenfurt, and everyone he meets has a piece of his heart. The witcher took the biggest one so far, but he won't allow him to take it all.
"That sounds familiar. Are you sure it was for only half an hour?" He asks as a little smile reaches his lips and he dares to close his arms around Geralt's waist. This witcher is a walking furnace as well, heh. If it pleases him? It does. A lot. "Ah, I should've guessed your crippling addiction to gambling transcended worlds." It feels good, being able to tease. Jaskier gives that (shapely built as ever, damn) waist a squeeze before pulling back, wrinkling his noise at the mention of drinking more. "Thank you. Seriously. I'll take you up for that offer of wine later, right now I can already feel a killer hangover coming. So if you excuse me, I shall find one of those lovely rooms you promised, and take a bloody nap."
Geralt does move aside this time, and Jaskier thanks him with a nod before he makes his way out into the hallway. Finding a guest room is easy, all these estates are similar like that in their structure, and the gods know Jaskier has played in enough of them - never mind the fact he also grew up in one. Having a new room where h's about to stay in for a few days usually comes with a ritual of putting away his stuff that Geralt knows well, but right now Jaskier is fucking exhausted. So he leaves them against the wall for now, and only takes off his doublet and wet pants before climbing under the covers.
Sleep comes easy after a month of hell, and he dreams of a warm hug and a comforting hand rubbing his back.
The sun hasn't quite set yet when he wakes up, but the colors of an afternoon ending are already appearing on the sky. Jaskier stays in bed for a moment, admiring them through the window as his lets his mind wander and come to terms with everything that happened that morning. He's not fully okay, not quite yet, but the conclusion he reached stills hold true in his heart: things are gonna suck anyway, may as well enjoy this as it lasts. That's how he's always moved on from heartbreak anyway, a night of drinking followed by pushing through like always, trying not to let it bother him, because that's how life and the matters of the heart work.
He's been an idiot the past month, suffering over a man that doesn't deserve it. And he's fucking done with that. Feeling revitalized with a new goal and purpose, Jaskier gets out of bed in a better mood, charms ready to find a maid - only someone like Geralt could smell the edge of sadness that hides behind this feeling of a new adventure. Jaskier smiles and winks, which gets him his dirty clothes sent away to be washed and a basin of clean, fresh water to wash himself as well. Dressed in his light blue doublet and with his hair properly brushed now, Jaskier leaves his room to explore.
It's a beautiful estate, that's for sure. Perfect for retirement, if that's what Geralt is doing, judging by the whole wine-and-gwent deal. It's funny, to think of Geralt as head of a household. The witcher had mentioned Jaskier's grandmother though, so he has to assume poor Dandelion suffered though Lettenhove as well - so maybe New Geralt is doing well thanks to extra help. Speaking of help, all the servants seem to be happy and relaxed in their jobs. Which is a great thing, obviously, but Jaskier can't help being surprised by it. It's a shitty thought he knows, but where he's from, people don't want to hang out with witchers. He's happy for Geralt to have found workers that respect him and don't fear him.
All the guest rooms seem to be about the same, so Jaskier isn't disappointed with his choice. He finds the desk Geralt told him about and gods, isn't that a sight, because it surely feels like a workplace he would've set up for himself. Half of him wants to use it, the other finds it too weird of a concept. It seems these contradictory feelings are going to follow him around for a while.
When he makes it to the master bedroom, curiosity gets the better of him pretty quickly. Are the swords the same? The medallion isn't. And this Geralt wears colors, what's up with that? Of course Jaskier needs the details! When he enters the room, however, the first things he notices aren't Geralt's.
That, right there, is Filavandrel's lute.
No. It can't be. Geralt is probably just taking care of it while Dandelion is gone, right? Except a closer look around the room tells him his assumptions may be correct after all. Shaking hands open the wardrobe and...
Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. Fuck.
It's like being punched in his stomach again in Posada.
Heart beating too fast to be possible, Jaskier runs back to his room, where he takes deep breaths and tries to calm down as he paces from wall to wall. He said he wouldn't allow this place to torture him anymore, right? Easier said than done of course, because the unfairness of it all keeps creeping up on him, taking him unaware and unprepared, delivering emotional kicks that keep squeezing his lungs out of air and his heart out of blood.
What he needs is to get all his feelings off his chest, cleanse his soul before going back to exploring, flirting and picking up stories from various new people. His mood isn't right for writing, however...
Jaskier stares at his lute, hesitating. And in the end he decides to hell with it. He grabs his instrument, sits on the windowsill...
And that's how suddenly the house is presented with the notes and lyrics of Her Sweet Kiss.
It's like therapy, okay. (Sorry about any crying maids.)
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Dandelion can handle himself. He has traveled the roads on his own for years, knows how to use the knives that Geralt gave him to defend himself if he has to. Or, sometimes, if he doesn't-- he's has had to physically pick him up and pull him away from fights that he's started, usually over someone saying something unflattering about witchers. Dandelion takes great offense at that kind of thing on Geralt's behalf.
(In another world, a bard follows after a witcher, ignoring his sullen silence, walking next to a brown mare. He sneaks her sugar cubes when he thinks the witcher isn't watching, but his bribes don't go unnoticed.)
Later, when the afternoon is sinking into evening, Geralt returns to the house after a good, long ride on Roach and takes off her tack, gives her a rub-down for the evening. There's a stable boy who could do that kind of thing, but he knows that Geralt likes to take care of Roach after rides, and that he prefers to get her dinner oats and water himself. He's walking back towards the house when he hears the sound of a lute, and though the melody is unfamiliar, for a moment it feels like everything is how it should be. Dandelion, sitting in the windowsill, trying out a new composition to see if he likes how it sounds. He cuts through the scullery to get back inside, and one of the maids is standing hear the sink, dabbing at her eyes. She startles when he walks in-- it's Lily, one of the newer girls, and she's... the cook's niece, he thinks-- and tries to dry her tears a little faster, pats down her apron like she's embarrassed to be caught in such a state.
"Terribly sorry, Master Geralt," she says, and he's already told her about a dozen times that just Geralt is fine, but she's upset so he lets it go, "It's just, your friend, the bard, he's playing something and it was just so sad. Lovely, but the kind of thing that makes you feel like you want to have a good cry."
Geralt has never felt like he needs to have a good cry in his life, but he just nods along as though he understands. He leaves her to her own devices, stepping into the hall.
I'm weak my love, and I am wanting,
He walks down it, towards the open window where Jaskier sits, silhouetted by the red and gold light of the approaching sunset. The light in his hair makes it look like a gold halo around his head, gilds his skin.
If this is the path I must trudge, I welcome my sentence, give to you my penance,
They aren't far from the bedrooms. Geralt catches a brief trail of Jaskier's distinctive scent, and though he doesn't follow it, it heads in the direction of the master, the one that he shares with Dandelion.
Garroter, jury and judge.
He waits until the bard is finished with his song-- it would be rude to interrupt.
"The maid cried."
A review, in three words or less.
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Her Sweet Kiss is a 'proper' song, one he could sing for a public if he wants to. But right now, it's working as his silly rhymes would usually do: it helps him calm down, helps him quench the flames that threaten to burn him from the inside. It's cathartic, that's what it is.
But that doesn't mean he isn't startled by New Geralt's sudden appearance. Fuck, did it hear it all?
And why should it matter anyway? Judging from what he saw in the master bedroom, this Geralt wouldn't have a negative reaction to Jaskier's pining. He's allowed to express himself... it's such a weird thought to wrap his mind around.
"I hope you know better than expecting me to apologize." He says with a little smile, watching the witcher closely for any clues about his thoughts on the song. His scent continues to be bittersweet. "My song has reached a gentle heart with its message - such an emotional reaction is a compliment for this bard! The magic of poetry showing its power! The only thing I lament is having missed it."
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He leans against the wall with his arms loosely crossed, not far from Jaskier's window. Watches him as he rambles a little about gentle hearts and the magic of poetry; it's not the words that Geralt is paying attention to, though. Bards can talk and talk until their throats are hoarse and still say nothing at all. What they can't hide, though, is their scent, and behind all that chatter about compliments to his talents, there's still sadness.
"She probably didn't want to bother you."
Hence the whole fleeing to the scullery thing. Besides, few people like to be seen when they're crying; no one cries prettily, not if they're doing it in earnest.
"Her sweet kiss, huh?"
It's a good song, really. The kind of thing that would get Jaskier a lot of coin if he played it at just the right time, when the audience was in the right kind of mood. With certain crowds, a maudlin ballad about lost love and heartache could open purses just as well as a bawdy song.
"If you want my opinion, the subject of your song's an idiot."
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"Ah, but she wouldn't have!" A hand goes to his chest, the maid's gesture considered touching. "What a sweetheart she is, I'll have a word with her later. Dedicate her a happier song."
Maybe make out with her if the opportunity makes itself known, why not.
Ah, but never mind the maid, New Geralt confirms he's heard the song. Which shouldn't be surprising because witcher ears, but still. He doesn't comment on Jaskier's feelings, at least - no teasing, no disgust, nothing but sympathy. Jaskier appreciates it more than he can describe.
"If by 'idiot' you mean 'a big dimwitted, cretinous, emotional constipated, blithering oaf', then agreed."
A shrug, as if it wasn't a big deal. Except it totally is, but he's supposed to be doing soul cleansing right now, let the memory of the asshole go. Impossible to do with another Geralt next to him, talking with the same voice, but he's gotta try. That's the plan anyway.
It fails quite badly.
"You and Dandelion..." He says as he looks at the sunset, fingers playing random notes, stomach turning once again. "...you're together."
Jaskier is Jaskier, and at the end of the day, his curiosity will always get the best out of him.
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Jaskier doesn’t look at him, instead turning his gaze to the lovely sunset that colors the whole vineyard in shades of red and gold. It’s the kind of sight that men paid thousands for. The fact that it’s now Geralt’s is... something that he’s still getting used to, even after a full year. The idea that maybe he’ll be a witcher who retires.
You and Dandelion... you’re together.
Geralt had wondered when Jaskier would ask that question. When he would notice that the witcher and his bard are a little closer than just best friends in the whole wide world. Not that Dandelion isn’t— he’s just also his lover, too.
“We are,” he says. “Dandelion is the heart of me, and he has been for probably longer than I realized. Though living with me has been a recent development for the both of us.”
Both because neither have been the settling down types, and because having the estate has been quite the new thing. And Geralt knows that Dandelion won’t stay for good— he has to go back to Novigrad, to the Chameleon, eventually. It’s what he wanted for so long and Geralt won’t demand that he stay.
“I won’t apologize for it. If I’ve learned anything from him, it’s that I spent too long denying the things I felt. But I hope this won’t make you uncomfortable.”
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His heart beats a little faster, the smile on his face is small and kinda sad, but honest. At least one of them got what they wanted - he's a bit jealous (scratch that, very jealous) but also genuinely happy for him. At least one bard should be rewarded for dealing with this oaf of a witcher. He has been for probably longer than I realized. Fuck, a year ago- hell, a month ago that would've given him hope. Not realizing how he feels is that kind of thing Geralt would do.
The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks it's something out of a story. Companion souls that meet again in another world... he can feel the words coming. In another life, in another place, I'd have held you close, I'd have known your grace.
It's Geralt's next statement that snaps him out of his composing mode. He turns to look at the witcher again, confusion and bafflement obvious in his face.
"Apologize?!" Oh look, it's the High Pitched Indignant Voice (TM). "Nobody should ever apologize for love, Geralt." A pause before he mumbles. "...even if there's something to be said about your taste in women."
Okay, look, not even when he's happy for them he can leave the pettiness behind, okay. Not ever, and especially not now that he's feeling all kinds of weird things about this deal. Any moment is a good moment to throw a jab at Yennefer.
"But I'm glad to hear you're finally expressing wants." He says as he looks through the window again, voice softening and fingers playing random chords. "I don't know how you think this may make me uncomfortable. You heard the song."
I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting...
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Jaskier launches into a little rant about love, which seems like it may be one of his favorite topics to rant about. Geralt indulges him through it, until he trails off with something about his taste in women.
"I'm not apologizing," he says, "and I think there's nothing wrong with my taste in women. They were all amazing people, even if they weren't the ones for me. Still friends with many of them."
Even Yennefer. Just because breaking the djinn wish had revealed that the intense, all-consuming attraction had been nothing more than magic, that didn't negate decades of knowing her. She is still important to him, though not in the same way.
"I thought this might make you uncomfortable because of what I heard in the song."
Geralt pushes off of the wall with his shoulder and instead sits below the windowsill, makes himself comfortable near Jaskier's feet.
"I've been told that I've gotten a lot better at talking and listening, in the past few years," he offers, tilting his head back to look up at the bard. "Can string a few words together, learned to pay attention when people talk about things that aren't about a contract or horses. You could talk about it, if you want. Maybe I'll have some insight."
Who else would know the inner workings of Geralt's mind better than Geralt himself? And if it would help ease him, either by confirming his suspicions or rejecting them, Geralt would listen. Gods know he's sat next to Dandelion to help sort out far more foolish problems than this.
"And if not, dinner will be ready in about an hour. I can make sure there's plenty of wine."
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It takes Jaskier a moment to wrap his mind around that, brow frowning in confusion - not as big as he and Dandelion, obviously, still processing that one thank you very much, but still. New Geralt had said he used to speak in grunts, as well, to be more like Old Geralt. He's older and nicer now, and that's good and all, but it's still weird to think of him as going out there and getting a bunch of not-paid lovers...
Like, let's say, a bard would do.
It's a good thing, really, that Geralt has achieved another step into normality, so to speak. Fewer people afraid of him, the kindness and affection he deserves. But Jaskier is Jaskier, and jealousy remains, especially when he thinks about poor Dandelion. Their relationship is recent, New Geralt said, which means Dandelion had to live through all those lovers. Jaskier never thought he'd see the day he would be thankful for just having to deal with Yennefer. Which is an incredibly selfish thought, because again, Geralt deserves this little piece of normality.
His heart just happens to be a mess right now. So much for having to reach that conclusion when he woke up, huh?
He supposes it had been silly of him to think he could just let go and enjoy this vacation so easily. New Geralt may be new, but he's still Geralt. Any conversation they have from now on will always end up back on these topics, on the differences, on making Jaskier's heart ache. Like now, with the witcher sitting under his feet, just hanging out like friends would do. Offering an ear for the bard's wordy rants, not something he's ever thought he could have.
It only takes him a second to jump off the windowsill and sit next to New Geralt on the floor, shoulders touching. If they had a fire in front of them, it could almost be like the old times - well, except it was never like this with Old Geralt, was it? So... comfortable. So open.
Jaskier loves talking about himself. But he's never talked about Geralt himself, not this level of honesty, he's realizing now. He's sung his praises and defended their friendship, but he's never truly shared the details of what they had with anyone, except maybe the Countess de Stael. And even her only got like one tenth of it.
If I talk about it, I'll cry again.
Putting it into words makes him feel so stupid. Jaskier has dealt with heartbreak many a time, but right now he just wants to scream. It's not just a lost love - he never even expected that from Geralt anyway. It's the loss of his best friend, his youth, his identity. So proud he's been of what he's done with his life, and who is he now? What kind of idiot is he for having built a reputation so entangled with the White Wolf's? He ran away from his family to, among other things, leave Julian behind and be the true Jaskier in him. What have the last twenty years become?
A lie.
He should say that. Instead he says-
"So you want to hear in detail what a fool I am? Why, Geralt, I thought you were the nice one." He jokes, his hands betraying him as they play some of the chords for Her Sweet Kiss. "I had only been trying to insult Yennefer, you know. All I know about his taste in women besides her is... whores."
Because not even twenty years of loyalty have earned him the true story of what happened in Blaviken.
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But that's neither here nor there.
The bard sits next to him, their shoulders bumping like old friends. But Jaskier still smells like sadness and loss, a scent that he hasn't quite been able to shake since he got to this estate. But would it have been any better in his own world? In Oxenfurt? Or would he just be covering up the smell of heartbreak with ale and the perfume of one-night lovers?
Jaskier's hands strum a few chords, as though he can't stand to have them still. Nervous habit. Dandelion is much the same, getting fidgety in the fingers when he's upset or anxious. A helpful indicator of his mood, though, so Geralt really can't complain.
"Insulting a sorceress? A bold move," he says, and he's teasing him back. "But considering that your song is about how she's so devastatingly beautiful that she ruins men's lives, I don't know if she'll be insulted. Might even like it."
Probably not what he's going for, but better than having an angry sorceress on his ass. Not that Geralt thought that Yen would actually hurt Jaskier-- or Dandelion, as the case may be. If his version of her is anything like the one in this world, she doesn't bicker with him to waste her time, she does it for the entertainment, for the fun of it. The odd camaraderie she has with Dandelion would undoubtedly surprise this bard greatly. But maybe there's hope in that. If Dandelion and Yennefer can get past their squabbles, perhaps anyone can. There may be a day when even Jaskier doesn't loathe the sight of her.
But he doesn't want to talk about what's gone on with his Geralt, apparently. That's fine-- heartbreak, and whatnot. Requires time and space. There's plenty of space, at least, on the estate, so he could escape whenever he wishes to someplace witcher-less. As for time-- well, Geralt hopes that they have it. It's a bit on Yen's nebulous schedule.
"I could tell you about a hunt instead," he says, switching tactics. What do bards like better than talking about themselves? Hearing stories about something they could write a song on. And even if it's not song material, it's still a story. "Something that you haven't heard before."
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Is he pouting? Oh yes, he's pouting. And his fingers drop the chords of Her sweet kiss to idly strum a comic jig instead.
New Geralt isn't incorrect about the ale and one night stands idea, it's how Jaskier usually deals with heartbreak. That, and whining to Old Geralt about it too. But it never lasted this long before - he's always loved freely and quickly, and it hurt but it hurt so good. It was never a regret. Right now, however, he just feels stupid.
That's new. He doesn't like it. And as much as he dying to talk about it as he'd usually do, he's not ready to confront the reality of the last twenty years of his life being a fucking mistake.
Jaskier has to wonder how much New Geralt understands of all that - probably not much. But at least he's being understanding, offering company and a chat, not pushing, and Jaskier appreciates that. His fingers pause when he hears the offer, the tip of his tongue peeking out as his heart beats a little faster. Before he can stop himself from doing anything stupid (when does that ever work anyway?), his hand reaches out to gently trace the scar on Geralt's eye.
"This one is new."
He's touching Geralt once more. It shouldn't mean anything, yet it means the world.
"The mere fact you still have your eye makes it ballad worth it, you lucky bastard." Except it's all skill, Jaskier knows. Meh, he's fine he's said in the past. But he has to tease anyway. "It's not the worst one - nothing can beat holding your guts--" Your. He's slipping again, fuck. "--but it's without a doubt at least top five."
Jaskier wants the story behind the eye scar, needs it like burning, but as calloused skin feels scarred skin, something comes back to his mind. After a short pause and a deep breath, his hand falls, this time to push up Geralt's white sleeve, trace the scars on the witcher's arm. His eyes and scent are a turmoil of emotions - the bittersweetness continues, but there's also some nostalgia there, some fondness. Because he's an utter fool that still cares.
"I recognize most of these. I can tell you every story behind them, I was there myself when at least half of them happened. And yet they look... different." He forces himself to look up then, wanting to see those golden eyes when they answer what he's already picturing in his head. "Has nobody ever tended your wounds?"
And by nobody he means Dandelion, but a word spinner he is, and he's trying not to throw accusations out there that can turn Geralt off this conversation.
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"It's quite old, and probably not as interesting as you'd like it to be. A parting gift from the cockatrice of Spalla," he replies. But then Jaskier mentions holding in his guts, and Geralt cocks his head to one side, a curious, almost canine gesture. "You held my guts in, too? The bruxa, up near Kerack?"
He still has the scar, a horizontal slash that runs just above his navel. It had been deep and terrible and he remembers Dandelion's pale, horrified face, holding his intestines in with one hand and feeding him potions with the other. It had all turned out fine, of course, though he remembers how, in the hours of agony while he healed afterward, how he had found comfort in Dandelion's presence. How, when in terrible pain, he had found solace in the touch of his hand on his feverish brow.
Maybe that was when he had first started to realize how much Dandelion meant to him.
Jaskier reaches down and pushes up the sleeve on Geralt's arm, revealing a tapestry of criss-crossing scars. He recognizes the map of tough tissue that twists across his skin-- seems intimately acquainted with it, in fact. But their appearance is different, which seems strange if Jaskier otherwise knows how they were made.
"I tended to them," he says. "The ones that I could, at least. Usually with salve, stitched if I could manage it."
So the ones on his right arm were worse than his left, simply because he's worse at stitching left-handed and bad stitches could be more detrimental than just letting a wound heal on its own.
"Why? I assume that your Geralt knows how to take care of his wounds."
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"Ugh, yes. Exactly that hunt, location included." Scent souring a bit at the memory, Jaskier closes his eyes and bumps the back of his head against the wall, swallowing the smell of Geralt's blood still engraved in his mind. "Most terrifying day of my life, and that's saying something considering the life I've lead next to a witcher."
The hand on Geralt's arm closes tightly, as if confirming he's there and alive. Jaskier has seen a lot of shit while traveling with Geralt, been threatened by monsters and humans alike, but nothing compares to having the witcher almost dying in his hands. Not even that day in Rinde when he actually thought he was dead - that had been a fast punch and the sadness hadn't lasted long. The bruxa wound had been continuous worry, hours of not knowing what would happen to Geralt, of seeing his best friend in pain and holding his very insides on his hands, hours of not-stopping torture.
Thankfully, New Geralt keeps talking, providing a good distraction and keeping him anchored to reality - even if this reality is quite messy in its own way, at least it's not the bloody kind of messy.
"Sure, as much care as the rules of 'witcher enduring' allowed him to." He says after snorting, irritation showing up in his voice. Dumb witchers. "Just like you, if your arm is anything to go by. I'm fine, Jaskier, witchers heal faster." The last part is said with his imitation of Geralt's deep voice as he shakes his head in disapproval. "The first time I stitched him, I puked right after. I thought he would tease me for it, he hadn't been very happy about all the camping stuff he had to teach me. But he didn't - he just passed me the water skin. Pointed at some puke on my doublet."
A pause. A sigh.
"...I thought that had meant something."
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"Witchers do heal faster than humans," he says, and he knows that those words are exactly the kind of thing that riles up bards. But that's a pretty damn good impression of his deep, rough growl, he has to admit. "Though I certainly heal better with a little salve and some bandaging."
And that was what his bard was good for-- getting him the potions that he needed or putting salve on wounds that he couldn't reach and bandaging them up. Helped keep him alive, even if it didn't make his wounds any prettier.
"Dandelion's a shit seamstress," he says after a moment or two of mulling over Jaskier's anecdote, "and he isn't any better on skin. He puked the first time he saw me with worse than some bruises and scrapes, too. Spared his doublet, didn't spare his shoes."
Then complained about how he'd just thrown up a belly full of piss ale all over his pretty embroidered leather. Geralt had been less than sympathetic at the time, but that was in large part due to the fact that he had a rather troublesome wound that he was bleeding profusely from. Puts him in a sour mood, a gaping hole in the side.
"I told him that vomit doesn't stain as badly as a few pints of witcher blood, and that's why I wore so much black." Geralt sighs. "Would've thought I punched him, by the look on his face. Fussed over me for the rest of the night."
And that had been an experience that was, somehow, simultaneously both uncomfortable and... kind of nice. Geralt wasn't used to being fussed over-- hell, he wouldn't take to it well even now. But the fact that Dandelion cared so much about whether he lived or died was a novelty that was hard to pass up even if, at the time, Geralt assumed that it was solely entrenched in self-preservation. If Geralt died, after all, Dandelion lost his protection against monsters, bandits, and angry fathers.
"It was... strange. Most humans wouldn't go out of their way to help a witcher, even if one fell over at their feet. You and Dandelion did more than just that."
They stayed, too. Even after the work had been done, they stayed and were there the next time it happened, and the next, despite how terrifying it was for them. It took Geralt far longer than it should've to realize why.
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Hearing Dandelion's a shit seamstress takes him by surprise. Of all the differences between their worlds, this one he doesn't see coming, simply because from what he's heard about Dandelion so far (and noticed in the wardrobe) says the bard takes care of his looks as much as Jaskier does. Doesn't he have the basic sewing skills to allow his doublets to survive the road?
"Your punches are nowhere as bad as your bleeding." He offers with a wrinkled nose, obviously speaking from experience. "But I'm glad to hear he knew what to do after."
It's been nice, having a Geralt that's appreciative in general. You and Dandelion did more than just that is much more direct, though, just like the apology he received earlier - directed at him. New Geralt barely knows him yet doesn't shy away from telling Jaskier he matters, from expressing how important it is what he's done for his witcher.
Jaskier can swear his heart is about to explode.
He hugs his lute close, overwhelmed by all these contradictory feelings inside of him, and before he notices what he's doing, he lets his head fall on New Geralt's shoulder. There's a pause before he speaks again, voice a mere murmur.
"Do you think Yennefer needs me to bring Dandelion back to you? I can continue to do more than that here." This isn't moving on or just enjoying the moment before going home, this is him being a fool again. But he can't help it, he's hurting and desperate to find his place in life again, to find a meaning behind the last twenty years that isn't just heartbreak. "I promise I won't sing about any scars Dandelion has already covered."
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Punches? An interesting thing to compare-- it's not as though he ever raised a hand to Dandelion, at least not more than an admonishing smack. (Once he'd given a good swat to the bard's ass when he'd thrown him over his shoulder and carried him away from a bar brawl, and, gods, Geralt was an idiot for not recognizing why his scent spiked sweet and lusty. He'd blamed it on the pretty barmaids and Dandelion's unrelenting libido.)
"Be glad you were never on the receiving end of my fist," he says, his tone as light as that rumbling baritone can ever get. A joke, because the idea of hurting Dandelion intentionally like that? Ridiculous.
The bard's head rests on his shoulder, a warm and familiar weight. If Geralt closes his eyes and ignores the difference between their scents, he could almost believe that everything is normal, that Dandelion is next to him as he always has been.
There is a terrible fragility to Jaskier's voice when he speaks, asks him a little desperate question that makes Geralt's heart ache for him. The Geralt from his world really did a number on him, didn't he?
"I don't know," he answers, because it's the truth. "I don't know enough about any of this to say for sure. But if she doesn't, and it won't hurt anything, I don't think that Dandelion would mind if you stayed. And maybe you don't have to be swapped at the same time. Maybe she could send you back another day, when you feel ready."
When, or if. Readiness can be a difficult thing to determine. Sometimes, people are never ready, even with all the time in the world.
"I would never force Dandelion to go back to a place that makes him miserable. How could I demand the same of you?"
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"...bollocks."
The curse is mumbled before he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. For fuck's sake, of all the things to be different... It's kind ironic, though, because of all the mistreatment he's received from Geralt through the years, the punch is the one thing he never resented him for, not truly. Geralt expressing an emotion for a change? Never a bad thing, and Jaskier did insult him. It is frustrating that he's been the only one to be punched for it -Geralt should be defending himself like that from everyone that insults him, really, there's a reason why Jaskier's had so many arguments at inns and taverns, getting them both in trouble- but it never truly bothered him.
He's looking at it differently now, after the mountain.
New Geralt isn't going to like this, he can tell. But the witcher is probably already smelling his hesitation, knowing something is going on.
"If I must be glad then it's over the receiving end having been my guts and not my face." He replies with the lightest tone he can muster. "These lovely lips must stay unbruised to keep singing to the innkeepers and kissing their maids."
Will he ever feel ready? Melitele's tits, he wants to believe so. He hates that he's letting this affect him so much, usually he loves and moves on much faster. The situation is unique, he reminds himself, a relationship of twenty years that built his reputation and career isn't the same as a fling, or even what he had with the Countess. Clinging to a new Geralt isn't the healthiest alternative either but...
He's so, so done with everything. Jaskier wants to be wanted, need, and New Geralt is, well. Offering him exactly that. He's weak and wanting, can anyone truly blame him for giving in?
"Thank you." His tone is softer now, his scent showing he's calming down, settling in. Not completely happy yet but at least allowing himself to rely on this distraction. "And sorry you've lost your bard because of this. I never thought the witch would take my need to get away from it all so extremely." A thought suddenly comes to his mind, and he can't help snorting. "...or maybe she was trying to grant him his wish as well."
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He's a witcher, after all. He's strong, and a misjudgment of his strength could easily hurt the bard severely. And for what? To punish him for an off-color comment or for chasing after the wrong skirt? Trifles compared to what could be lost.
"Hm."
Classic Geralt-brand brooding. A more emotionally competent witcher he may be, but there are some habits that never quite leave.
But Jaskier's tone and his scent soften, and that in turn helps to blunt the edge of Geralt's bad mood. Even if Jaskier's been poorly treated before, he's here, and he's safe, and there are no ungrateful witchers around to break his heart.
"There's nothing for you to apologize for," he says with a shake of his grey head. "You didn't ask the sorceress to do any of this."
That last comment, though, Jaskier's sudden thought, makes Geralt frown. Could that be true? Would Dandelion have wished to get away from him, to go somewhere that Geralt couldn't follow? He'd never tried to restrict Dandelion's wanderlust or demanded that he stay, but perhaps he had felt trapped anyway. Geralt had been so sure that he was happy, but he'd also once thought that he was in love with Yennefer, so he isn't exactly the most reliable judge of such things.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says, because food is a safe topic. "Will you come?"
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"Ooooh nononono, don't you dear start brooding on me, you obstinate wolf!" And that's one finger poking at Geralt's chest. "I thought you were supposed to be the less emotionally constipated one! Use. Your. Words." Each word is punctuated by a poke before the hand is taken back. Huff! Silly witchers.
It's true, though, he didn't ask the sorceress to do this. But he wants to show some sympathy, especially since they were screwed over like a third party. Nothing like at all like Old Geralt's accusations, where his misery came from his own stupid choices. So Jaskier mumbles another thanks before smiling at the invitation. It's such a little thing but it makes a big difference.
"Of course! Dinner sounds lovely, and you can tell me your stories while we share some wine."
And maybe this time he gets to flirt a little more with the maids. Would it be weird, though, now they both know how the other feels? Speaking of...
Jaskier is already standing up to leave, but only take two steps before he stops. A new thought has come to his mind, one that squeezes his heart and makes him smell nervous as hell. It's a crazy thought, one that could hurt him anymore, but now that it's in his brain it won't go away and he knows he better deals with it sooner than later. At least they're having a moment here, better make use of the occasion instead of letting his mouth say too much by accident later.
"May I ask you a question?" He doesn't turn around, for the first time ever not daring to look at golden eyes when he speaks. "It's-- I promise I don't mean anything deeper at all with it, you have my word as a bard... which you probably think it's not worth much, do you not, the word of a storyteller. Right then, I swear on my bloody lute, it's not a proposition and I have no expectations, I'm not asking anything of you, a simply yes or not will do. I just have this need to know..."
He's rambling, he knows. A deep breath.
"...do you think I'm attractive?"
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"It's nothing important," he says, and that's probably an answer that he'd heard before from the emotionally incompetent Geralt, too. "And it isn't anything that you could answer, anyway."
He wouldn't know what's in Dandelion's mind, after all. They're similar, not literally the same person.
The bard is only a few steps away when he stops, something apparently on his mind. Something important, since it makes his scent go strangely anxious and insecure. All of the qualifiers before he gets to the actual question are also concerning, though they do make him terribly curious as to what he's so worried about. Something that could sound like a proposition? What, is he going to ask what Dandelion's like in bed, or, even worse, what Geralt is like in bed?
The answer, of course, is good, though for one awkward moment, Geralt wonders if some aspects of his sex life with the bard would be... surprising, or if he'd pegged Geralt as quickly as Dandelion had.
Do you think I'm attractive?
Well. That's certainly a tamer question than Geralt was expecting.
He takes a moment and lets his eyes wander over the bard's figure, going from the bottom up. He's tall, though not as tall as Dandelion, broad shouldered and sturdy. His clever tailoring hides some of it, making him look more delicate than he is. There's a boyish charm to his features, and his eyes are so very blue, like cornflowers.
"Yes," he replies, standing up from his spot under the window. "You are an attractive man."
He gives the bard a wry smile. "Fishing for compliments?"
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"Just because I can't provide an answer, it doesn't mean I can't offer a friendly ear to help you sort your troubles. It can't possibly be worse than fishing for a djinn to solve them."
Talking to his best friend in the world? Bad. Asking a djinn to put him to sleep and possibly getting wish side-effects? Good. Classic Geralt logic.
Those golden eyes have always carried so much weight in them, so intense they are with decades of watching humanity and monsters (sometimes being one and the same). It isn't often that Jaskier has trouble meeting them, but now? Feeling them on his very human body, checking him out? Well, it's something else for sure. It makes him feel almost naked - exposed.
Then the answer comes and, well. Jaskier smiles, his hear beating a little faster. Dandelion is one lucky son of a bitch, isn't he?
"Thank you." He says with the deepest sincerity, almost feeling like he's a teenager again, getting giddy over the simplest of compliments. But then New Geralt makes that question and he laughs, providing the distraction he needs. He has the answer he needed and his soul feels a little cozier for it, now he can go back to his usual histrionics. "Geralt, you wound me!" After hanging his lute on his back, he opens his arms as he follows the witcher back to the dining room. "Surely you must know any bard worth his money has many a way in his sleeves to fish for compliments, more subtle and effective that such a direct question!" Subtle, Jaskier? Really? "Not even Queen Calanthe herself was inmune to my hunt for flattery, and thank the gods for that, considering the pickle you put us in."
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